The Legend of Bonneville Herrsch

By Cameron Hoover

Sy Raskin is stung by the news of Bonney Herrschs deathand then perplexed by his obituary. Raskin had known the long-time intelligence operative for forty years. Herrsch was Raskins mentor, and theyd shared risks and danger. But in all that time Herrsch never mentioned a family. He had died in Switzerland and been buried on an estate thereanother surprise.

Herrsch led an OSS team on an operation at the time of the Normandy invasion. Shortly after the three operatives parachuted into eastern France, the Germans were onto them. They had been betrayed, as had the men theyd be sent to replace. Eluding the pursuing German troops, Herrsch made it into Switzerland. Raskin knew about this history, but knew nothing more about a Swiss connection.

Now Raskin is determined to uncover his friends past. He enlists the assistance of Fritz Kohl and Alex Fletcher, two former CIA analysts who were briefly acquaintances of Herrsch. The trio follows a trail that leads them to Switzerlandand to dumbfounding revelations about Bonney Herrschs extraordinary life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475981377

Cameron Hoover

Cameron Hoover is a retired US Navy captain who was involved in intelligence operations throughout the Cold War. He spent a dozen years abroad on assignments in Europe and the Mediterranean area. He has an MA in Middle East studies and lives in New Mexico with his wife and two Rhodesian ridgebacks. His is also the author of A Zhukov Evening.

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Copyright © 2013 by Cameron Hoover.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-8135-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-8136-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-8137-7 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013904680

iUniverse rev. date: 04/08/2013

Contents

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Also by the author

A Zhukov Evening

Part One

Sy Raskin’s Challenge

McLean, Virginia—March 1994

The sky was brightening as Sy Raskin and his two black Labradors turned onto the last leg of their early-morning circuit. The only person he’d seen on the half-hour jaunt through his hilly neighborhood was Vera, the paper lady. She’d blown by in her old Mustang and given him her usual salute. He’d raised a hand to another early-morning warrior.

When Raskin reached his home, he picked up his paper and led the dogs inside. They trailed him down the hall and into the kitchen. The daily ritual concluded with the reward of chewy sticks. Then Bo and Sis slumped onto their pads and chomped away. Raskin stepped across to the green tile counter and lifted the carafe from the coffeemaker. He filled a mug and took a sip.

The phone rang. Raskin glanced at the kitchen clock and shook his head. It had to be the Kraut. He took a swig of coffee, lifted the phone, and offered his customary gruff salutation to Fritz Kohl.

Morning, Sy. Good walk?

Dogs had a good romp. There’s a bit of a zip in the air, but it’ll be a good day, Kraut. Weather guy on TV last night said tomorrow will be better. You’re not calling to back out, are you? I’ve got us set up for a ten o’clock tee time.

No, I’m good to go if you are.

Damn right I am. You took seventeen dollars off me last time, Raskin grunted in irritation. You’ve never hit straight drives on fourteen and sixteen. Hell, bogey was the best you’d ever shot on those holes.

Fritz Kohl didn’t respond to Raskin’s gibe. In a somber voice, he said, Sy, I’ve some bad news to pass on.

Raskin set the mug on the tile counter. Okay, let’s hear it.

Bonney Herrsch died several days ago in Switzerland.

Raskin grimaced. Dammit, I knew Bonney was dying, but I’d put it out of my mind. Raskin slammed the table with his fist, roared, Shit! Fuck it! and slammed the table again. He let out a deep breath. Bonney had eluded death more than once. He accepted the inevitable with the uncommon grace of a very tough guy.

"Bonney’s obituary was in this morning’s Washington Post. I knew you’d want to know." It didn’t surprise Raskin that Fritz Kohl had been reading obituaries at zero damn five-thirty. The Kraut had been a highly regarded analyst at the CIA. He still kept a wide eye peeled to feed an undiminished appetite for information.

Kohl told him the section and page. Raskin leaned over the newspaper he’d dropped on the table. He located the obituary and read it aloud. E. B. Herrsch died on February 27, 1994 in Erlenbach, Switzerland. He is survived by his wife, Madeleine, a son, Karl, and two grandsons. E. B. Herrsch served in the US Army and with the OSS during World War II. He later joined the CIA. Following a private service at the Zimmermann chapel, burial was on the estate.

Raskin expelled a long breath. Bonney gave me a call this past November to let me know he was at his apartment. I drove over to DC to see him. He’d lost weight, and his color was bad. Told me he had cancer. Said he’d started treatment involving some untested drugs. Hell, he knew they hadn’t slowed the cancer. Time was running out. He’d let me know he was in town to say good-bye, but not to actually say it. Raskin paused, picked up the mug, and downed more coffee. Damn, but that’s the way he’d do it, Kraut. Bonney Herrsch had a style all his own. I’ve never met anyone like him.

Kohl waited a moment and then said, From what you’ve told me, Sy, you tied up with Bonney on several operations. The two of you had to have been very compatible.

We were, and it clicked on our first operation. Over the years, we spent a fair amount of time together. I never knew when Bonney would turn up. He’d give me a call, and we’d get together. Nothing was ever said about where he’d come from or where he’d been since I’d last seen him. Raskin laughed. He must’ve spent a hell of lot of time in Switzerland I never knew about. He never dropped a hint about a family or this Zimmermann estate.

Kohl told Raskin he’d looked up Erlenbach in one of his atlases. It’s on Lake Zurich, small place about fifty miles from Zurich.

Raskin muttered something about Switzerland. Kohl asked him what he’d said. "Switzerland, Bonney had a strong attachment to the country. Considering his experience shortly after D-Day, that’s understandable.

You must remember when I took you along to that Redskins game a few years back. Bonney had gotten his hands on six tickets to a game with the Giants. He’d invited me to join him and some guys he’d known in the OSS. One of them had to drop out at the last minute. You were the sub. After the game, we went to Bonney’s apartment. Had a couple of drinks and grazed on the spread he’d laid out. Bonney and these old pals of his reeled off stories about OSS operations.

Of course I remember, Sy. Bonney had a magnetic presence and a marvelous way with words. ‘Blunders and luck,’ he assured us. That’s the only way he could have possibly eluded the Germans and made it into Switzerland.

Yeah, Bonney could wind you up with that tale. Raskin chuckled. I heard it—or parts of it—several times. I was never certain what the real story was or if I’d ever heard it. But that was Bonney; he always kept you guessing. Raskin paused and then said, I’d always assumed Bonney had never been to Switzerland before that. But his obituary makes me wonder.

Kohl picked up on this. Sy, about a year after that night at Bonney’s, I went to a party with a gal who’d worked for Herb Cotten when he was CIA station chief in Brussels. I met Herb and told him I’d heard Bonney’s account of the blown OSS operation. Herb asked if I knew Alex Fletcher. I told him that Alex and I often consulted. Herb said that Alex had led him to the man who’d betrayed them. He waved a hand in the direction of his wife. Said I should ask her about the trip to Switzerland she’d made with Alex and Bonney.

Raskin drained the mug. What did Cotten’s wife tell you?

She was surrounded by old friends. I never got to talk to her.

Raskin squinted. Alex Fletcher… I don’t recall Bonney ever mentioning his name. What did Fletcher tell you about this trip to Switzerland with Bonney and Cotten’s wife?

"Alex and I were seriously tied up at work at that time. Eastern Europe was coming unzipped, and the Soviet Union had begun to teeter. Alex was the wizard on the Soviet problem. His advice was in heavy demand. Not the time to ask him about a trip to Switzerland with Bonney and Cotten’s wife years back.

A lot happened in the GDR and Eastern Europe over the next few years. My encounter with Cotten fell through a crack. Sounds strange, but when I read Bonney’s obituary, it brought it to mind. I could call Alex and invite him to join us tomorrow. Give you a chance to talk to him.

Are you sure Fletcher’s a golfer?

Sy, I’ve seen Alex’s picture in the paper. He’s won a couple of senior tournaments.

Hell, he’s much better than either of us. But give him a call. I’m curious to hear what he may know about Bonney’s Swiss connection.

Raskin moved to hang up the phone and then stopped. Are you still there, Kraut? Kohl was. Damn I’m getting slow. E. B. Herrsch—what the hell does the E stand for? Where was Bonney born? How old was he when he died? You’d expect that to be in an obituary. And how does this Zimmermann estate where Bonney was buried fit into the picture?

After a brief pause, Kohl said, You’ve lost me, Sy.

Goddamn, Kraut, you’re disappointing me. Bonney wrote his obituary. I read what’s in it and what’s not as a challenge. Raskin, old pal, are you up to unraveling the life of E. B. Herrsch?

Sy, how can you be so damn certain Bonney wrote his obituary? And what could possibly lead you to believe it’s a challenge aimed at you?

Raskin’s voice was softer when he replied. When I left Bonney’s apartment back in November, he gave me that strong grip. I said something clumsy about old times and good times. Then I told him to keep in touch. That was really goddamn stupid. But what do you say to a guy who’d meant a lot to you and was sure to die soon. Bonney smiled and told me I’d be hearing from him.

Raskin paused. I knew Bonney for forty years, and I never received a card or letter from him. I never sent him one because I didn’t know where the hell he was until he showed up. Raskin cleared his throat. "Yeah, it could be a leap, one hell of a leap. But Bonney was all about plans. My gut tells me his obituary was what he meant when he told me I’d be hearing from him. He died in Switzerland. Why else would his obituary appear in the Washington Post? I’m not the kind of guy who reads obituaries. Bonney was confident I’d find out sooner or later."

He looked down at the newspaper. It’s right before our eyes. Bonney Herrsch led a double life. Was there more to it than his family in Switzerland? If there was, why didn’t he take that to his grave? The way I see it, Bonney wanted me to know about his life. I’m determined to learn why.

When Alex Fletcher picked up the phone later that day, the name of the man at the other end of the line briefly eluded him. Fletcher and Kohl grappled to recall the last time they’d been in contact.

I think it was shortly after the Berlin Wall was breached, Kohl said.

Fletcher was certain it had been later than that. He thought it was more likely to have been when East and West Germany reunified the following year. They both laughed, and Fletcher said, The world, and particularly our old world, has taken quite a few spins since we last met or spoke.

Kohl had been the Agency’s foremost expert on the German Democratic Republic. He’d contacted Fletcher over the years when he needed insight into recent moves by the Kremlin. Fletcher had occasionally tapped Kohl’s expertise on East German politics to factor into his Soviet analyses. But this phone call out of the blue had nothing to do with their days at the CIA. Kohl told him Bonney Herrsch had died in Switzerland. Fletcher was disbelieving. He had met Herrsch years back. Their acquaintance had spanned something on the order of three days. Fletcher asked Kohl what had led him to call him about Herrsch’s death.

Kohl explained. He told Fletcher about his conversation with Herb Cotten a few years back. "I mentioned that I’d heard Bonney’s account of this blown OSS operation that Herb had also been involved in. We chatted briefly. Herb brought your name up. He told me you’d done something very important. Then Herb said something about you, Bonney, his wife, and a trip to Switzerland. When I read Bonney’s obituary in the Washington Post this morning, it brought all this back to mind."

Fletcher took a deep breath. Years and places are dancing around in my head, Fritz. I met Herb Cotten for the first time in 1945 at what had recently been General Eisenhower’s field headquarters near Reims. Second time I encountered Herb was eight years later in Munich. And not long after that, I met Bonney Herrsch.

"Alex, hold it there. My friend Sy Raskin was a close friend of Bonney’s. He’d want to hear anything you can tell him about his connection to Switzerland.

How about joining us for eighteen holes tomorrow? Sy abuses golf balls with great enthusiasm, and I scare the hell out of a number of squirrels. From what I’ve seen in the paper, you don’t have a problem in keeping your ball in the fairway.

Fletcher agreed, and Kohl told him the golf course and the tee time. Kohl hung up, but Fletcher held the phone in his hand for a few moments before replacing it. His brief conversation with Fritz Kohl had opened up a flood of memories.

Three months after Fletcher had retired from the CIA, Mikhail Gorbachev was out, and the Soviet Union was ushered off the world stage. He stood and rubbed his neck. No one, including the Russians, knew what would ultimately follow seventy years of Communist domination. It had been a rough ride so far for the Russian Federation. He was uncertain how it would turn out, as many must be in Russia. Fritz Kohl’s pal Sy Raskin was not interested in the fall of Communism, Boris Yeltsin, or Russia’s future.

Fletcher rose and headed for the kitchen with a cup of coffee in mind. But it came to him that a couple of fingers of single malt would be a better choice. The phone call had unleashed a torrent of memories. He stepped to the cabinet where bottles of wine and the harder stuff were shelved. Fletcher pulled out a brown-labeled bottle and set it on a sideboard. He opened a cabinet, took out a tumbler, and poured a liberal two fingers. Fletcher returned to his desk, tumbler in hand.

It was Switzerland—not the death of Bonney Herrsch—that had put his head in such a spin. He and Anna were going to travel to Europe after he retired. Switzerland was on their agenda. But Anna had died suddenly six weeks before he retired. Trip not made. All of their great plans just so much paper. Fletcher lifted the tumbler, savored the whiskey, and rose to survey his past. Anna had arranged the photographs in his study. All but two of the seven in the montage had been taken in Switzerland. The first photograph was of several army officers on the steps of an imposing building. His father had served in France during World War I. He’d remained in uniform after the armistice to serve in the escort cadre for members of the American delegation to the Paris Peace Conference. Soon after the Versailles Treaty had been signed, Arnold Fletcher had gone to Switzerland to study international law. In Geneva, he’d met the young Russian woman who became his wife.

The second photograph was of Arnold Fletcher and Alix Orlovsky on their wedding day. It had been taken in 1922 in front of her family’s home near Parc La Grange in Geneva. In the third photograph, young Alex Fletcher stood between his mother and his grandmother. In the custom of the time, his mother had inscribed the date and place it had been taken on the white margin at the bottom. Alex had turned seven on his first visit to Switzerland in 1930.

Fletcher moved to his right. In a photograph taken seven years later, his grandmother was seated. Alex, now a gangly teenager, stood behind her. A photo of Alex, his mother, and father was mounted beside it. These two photographs had also been taken at the Orlovsky family home.

Fletcher smiled at the next photograph. The young army officer’s hand rested on the hood of a Jeep. What second lieutenant wouldn’t be proud to have been issued a Jeep? The photograph had been taken in Reims in 1945. His mouth curved into an ironic smile. Herb Cotten had ridden in that Jeep.

Then there was a large photograph of the Orlovsky family home. Fletcher had taken it in 1953. Bonney Herrsch and Marie Cotten had accompanied him from Munich to Switzerland. He’d dropped them at their destination and driven on to Geneva.

The final photograph was of him and Anna on their wedding day.

Fletcher’s conversation with Fritz Kohl had catapulted him back in time. He bent down, opened a cabinet, and removed a battered photo album. He’d retrieved the album along with personal belongings of his late grandmother on his trip to Switzerland forty years ago.

Marina Orlovsky had leafed through the album with him the last time he’d seen her. She’d put a finger under every photograph. Told him about the person or persons the camera had caught. He couldn’t recall all the details about the members of the Orlovsky family. Nevertheless, he’d retained a good grasp of his Russian forebears. His great-grandfather Sergei was bewhiskered and stern looking, a big man. In another photograph, Sergei towered over his diminutive wife. Fletcher recalled being told that she had died soon after giving birth to their son, Igor. There were several photographs of Igor as a young boy. In another he was a strapping adolescent.

Sergei Orlovsky’s mistress had given birth to a daughter a few months before he married Fletcher’s great-grandmother. Photographs of young Galina caught a very pretty girl. Later photographs showed her to have become a beautiful young woman. There were photographs of his grandfather Mikhail. One was of him as a young boy. He bore no resemblance to his older half brother and half sister. There was a photograph of him in student garb. He appeared serious and scholarly. He had died the year before Fletcher’s first visit to Switzerland in 1930.

Fletcher paused, lifted the tumbler, and took a sip of the single malt. Switzerland had been spun out of his past into the present. It had brought with it a cascade of memories. He shook his head and turned a page of the album. There was a photograph of his grandfather and his mother. Then a photograph of his great-grandmother, whose name he recalled was Irina. He turned more pages and found photographs of his mother and grandmother. He was about to close the album when a loose photograph fell out. A massive Igor Orlovsky stood beside an elderly Sergei Orlovsky seated in a chair.

Fletcher’s grandmother had told him stories about times past in St. Petersburg. Young Alex had soaked them up. The stories that had caught his imagination the most were those that involved his half great-uncle Igor Orlovsky. He had been a senior official in the Okhrana, the Secret Police of Tsarist Russia. Igor had been more aware than most that darkness was gathering over Imperial Russia. He’d surmised well before the end that the tide of change would not be stemmed. Igor had managed to get his half-siblings out of Russia before the country descended into chaos and revolution.

Fletcher’s grandfather, Mikhail, was an official in the Foreign Ministry. Igor arranged to get him posted to the Imperial Russian Consulate in Paris. Igor had urged Galina to join them, but she refused. Later, she did agree to join her brother in Paris. On Igor’s final visit to the Orlovsky family home in Petrograd, Galina had given him two albums of family photographs.

This album of photographs had been found on the doorstep of the Orlovsky home in Geneva eight years later. Galina, living in Cannes by then, had found the other album she’d given Igor inside her garden gate. How Igor had known where his two half-siblings lived, and how the albums had reached them was never known.

Igor was a man of mystery. A huge Russian man was reported to be in the north of Sweden. Information reached Fletcher’s grandfather that a man who resembled Igor was in eastern Turkey. There was a more reliable report from an old family acquaintance. Igor was in Manchuria. He’d seen him in Harbin. Many Russians had fled east before and after the revolution.

Fletcher closed the album and ran his hand over the scarred leather cover. His grandmother’s final words to him on the family’s visit to Switzerland in 1937 had been prophetic. She’d told him that he could think like a Russian. That would prove a great advantage in life. Fletcher rubbed his chin and smiled. He’d spent his professional life thinking like a Russian. He’d always thought that Kremlinologist was a lofty label for men such as himself. Penetrating the intentions and actions of the Soviet leadership had not been a science. It was an arcane skill that Alex Fletcher had mastered.

Had his insight been a pass down from his great-uncle Igor? He was quite sure that wasn’t the case. Nevertheless, the idea of the Okhrana and the CIA working together to counter the Kremlin had often brought a chuckle.

Fletcher had been surprised at how much he’d enjoyed the eighteen holes with Fritz Kohl and his pal Sy Raskin. Banter between those two had started on the first hole. As Kohl stepped to the tee box, Raskin growled, Okay, Kraut, you’ll have a hard time making your usual double bogey if you hit your ball into the trees. Kohl’s drive hooked toward the trees, but a fortuitous bounce kicked his ball into the first cut of rough. Raskin took a couple of practice swings with his driver, looked down the fairway, and then back at Kohl. Five bucks I outdrive you by thirty yards. Kohl looked to the area where his ball had landed and told Raskin he was on. And so it had gone. Bets were made, and barbed gibes volleyed back and forth on every hole.

Fletcher’s score in the mideighties was very respectable but several strokes over what he usually shot. Sy Raskin would have come close to breaking ninety except for a double bogey on the sixteenth hole. Fritz Kohl had a chance to best Raskin, but he put a ball into the pond to the left of the seventeenth green.

Raskin suggested he spend the money he’d won from Kohl on a late lunch, but Alex Fletcher invited them to his home. After Fritz called yesterday, I whipped up some potato soup. A favorite recipe of my late wife that has ingredients you’d never expect. There’s a fresh loaf of rye bread and some Polish ham. I’m pretty sure I can scare up some German beer.

Back at Fletcher’s home, while the tureen of soup heated, Fletcher invited his guests to look at the photographs hanging in his study. That’s me with my hand on the hood of the Jeep. He looked a Kohl and Raskin, with the hint of a smile on his face. I’ll explain later. He put out rye bread and slices of ham. Then Fletcher ladled soup into blue pottery bowls. The talk was mostly about golf while they ate. After Fletcher had cleared the table, they took their coffee into the den.

Fletcher took a sip and set his mug on a low table. He swung around in the gray leather, barrel chair. Since Fritz called and told me about Bonney’s death, I’ve attempted to pull together what I recall about him. Herb Cotten is the key. I met him shortly after the war in Europe ended. It was a chance encounter that had important consequences at the time and later. But I don’t want to get ahead of myself. Fletcher took another sip of coffee, sat back, and cast his thoughts back to France in 1945.

Forward Headquarters, Reims—May 1945

Lieutenant Alex Fletcher pulled up in front of the large tent that served as the officers’ mess at the Reims base. He entered and took a tray. Beef stew was ladled onto his plate. He picked up two hard rolls and then stopped at the coffee urn. A few officers were there, but no one he knew. Fletcher took his tray to a vacant table at the side of the tent. He forked stew into his mouth and broke off a piece of a roll. As he took a sip of coffee, a very fit man a few years older than him walked over. He asked if he could join him. Fletcher motioned to the empty chair.

Herb Cotten wore an officer’s uniform shirt and trousers. There were no markings of rank on his collar. Fletcher’s curiosity was obvious. Cotten told him he was a member of the OSS. He’d come to the base to arrange for transportation to Frankfurt. OSS operatives in Europe were gathering there. Fletcher asked if he’d been involved in D-Day. Cotten had been, but not at Normandy. He’d parachuted into eastern France with two others. Not far from where they sat. Fletcher’s surprise was obvious. An OSS operation in eastern France on D-Day struck him as highly unusual. Fletcher sat back to listen.

Cotten’s face hardened as he pulled the series of events to mind. Late on the night before troops would go ashore in France, a converted British bomber took off from an airbase in East Anglia. The Halifax carried twenty-four men. Teams of three were composed of British, French, and Americans. The jump master told them about the flight plan. Then he lined up the teams in accordance with their missions. The Halifax turned south over the English Channel. The men checked their kit and gave their weapons a final look-over. The jump master, big earphones clamped on his head, hooked his harness into a loop on the fuselage. The belly hatch was levered open. The Halifax dropped lower as it headed east. Shortly after crossing the French coast, it turned north. The jump master pointed to the first team. They rose and moved forward. When the navigator gave the word, the jump master made a chopping move with his right arm. In quick succession, the three men dropped through the hatch. Six more teams were inserted behind the German defenses in Normandy.

Then the Halifax banked and headed east. The remaining team of three OSS operatives had been assembled two days prior to the invasion. Four British operatives had been dropped into eastern France ten days earlier. Their mission was to report on the movement west of German troops and supplies following D-Day. Their headquarters was informed that they were well located to survey roads and rail lines feeding out of Germany. After that initial report, nothing more had been heard. Emergency contact messages were broadcast over the BBC, but there’d been no response.

French Resistance headquarters was requested to investigate. One of their members was sent to the area. She returned to Resistance headquarters and reported that the British agents had apparently been killed by the Germans. London was informed. The French were advised that another team would be sent in. The OSS took the lead on the mission. The officer in charge of that team was Lieutenant Bonney Herrsch. Herb Cotten was the exec. Herrsch and Cotten both spoke French. Cotten could also handle the radio that was essential to the mission. Monty Lawrence was the third member.

The Halifax made a pass over the drop zone. The pilot informed the jump master it was tight. The plane turned and came in lower. The jump master had them through the belly hatch before the aircraft cleared the drop zone. The Halifax made another run to drop a weapons container. As it floated down, a small truck appeared out of the darkness. A man shouted a welcome as he jumped out to assist. Parachutes were gathered and tossed into the truck. The weapons container was hefted on top of the chutes. The three OSS operatives climbed in. The truck headed back in the direction from which it had come.

When it came to a stop, Herrsch jumped down. The man who’d assisted them told him his name was Arnaud. The driver of the truck was a big man named Picard. He pointed to a cluster of people beneath the limbs of a large tree. A figure emerged from the deep shadows. Herrsch flicked on a flashlight, trained it on a woman, and then behind her. Its beam caught three men. By his dress, one was a priest. The big man standing beside him had a patch over his left eye. Lank hair hung around his broad, flat face. The man to his left was smaller. Unruly, dark hair emphasized a weasel-like face.

Herrsch turned to the woman. She told him her name was Jasmine. He asked why the priest was there. Jasmine told him he’d assisted her. After failing to learn anything about the British team, she’d visited Father Anton. He’d passed on the scrap of information she’d brought back to Paris. Herrsch nodded and beckoned the priest to step forward. Father Anton confirmed what Jasmine had told him. A relative of a member of his parish had passed through Avize on his way to Epernay. He’d told his cousin that a German raid had recently been carried out several miles southeast of there.

The priest gestured toward the big Frenchman. Philippe had learned Jasmine had been seeking information about British agents. He’d come to his church because Jasmine had been seen with him. Philippe had told him he had information for her. A day after Jasmine returned to Avize, Philippe had appeared at the church. He’d told her what he knew about the British agents.

Herrsch turned the light on Jasmine again and asked why Philippe and the other man were there. She explained that she’d told Philippe another team would be sent in. He’d offered his help. She’d agreed and had brought them here.

Herrsch slapped the flashlight into his palm. The woman was a fool to have been so easily duped. They hadn’t been on the ground thirty minutes, and the mission was in jeopardy. Herrsch flashed the light on Philippe and asked him to step forward. Herb Cotten slipped off the truck. Herrsch asked Philippe what he’d told Jasmine about the British agents. In a gravelly voice, he said that Germans had raided their base. There’d been an exchange of fire, and the four men had been killed. Herrsch asked how he knew this. Philippe said he had encountered one of the men near a road. This man had stepped into an animal’s burrow and badly wrenched an ankle. Philippe had assisted him back to the ruin of an old barn. Three other men were there. One of them had given him money to obtain food. Philippe gestured toward his companion. He’d driven him to Epernay the following morning. Bread, cheese, and fruit had been purchased. That afternoon, they’d driven him to a spot near the old barn. Philippe had headed off through the trees with the food. Gunfire had erupted ahead of him. He’d hurried back to the car, and they’d driven away.

Herrsch asked how the Germans had found the four men. Philippe twisted his head impatiently. They’d learned that foreign agents were in the area. Soldiers had been sent to search for them. Then Herrsch asked Philippe how he knew all four men had been killed. Philippe made a harsh sound like a growl. He thrust an arm toward Herrsch and shouted for him to take the light from his eye. The beam of the flashlight didn’t waver. Philippe swung an arm toward Jasmine. He said she’d promised him weapons so he could protect them.

Herrsch took a step back, and Cotten moved to his side. Herrsch handed him the flashlight. Cotten gripped it in his left hand, a Colt revolver in his right. In the truck, Lawrence had his submachine gun at the ready. Herrsch turned and went to where Arnaud and Picard stood. He asked Picard how they’d become involved. The big man told him his farm and vineyard were adjacent to Father Anton’s family’s much larger property. Father Anton had come to him for assistance. A truck was needed. Arnaud had come along to help. Herrsch asked about Philippe. Picard didn’t recall ever seeing him or the other man.

Darkness was fading. Herrsch had to make a decision. He asked Picard where they would go. He said he’d take them to his farm, but they must leave now. German patrols would be on the roads soon. Picard pointed to the sky to emphasize his message.

Herrsch stepped back to where Jasmine stood. He asked how Philippe and the man with him had gotten there. She told him that they’d ridden with her in Father Anton’s car. Herrsch gripped her arm and pulled her aside. He told her to depart. He’d see her and the priest at Picard’s farm later that morning.

Herrsch and Cotten joined Lawrence in the back of the truck. As they drove away, Philippe hammered the air with a burly arm and bellowed curses. Picard took a twisting route to his farm. Twice he’d taken the truck off the road and driven through fields. Once he’d stopped, and Arnaud had run ahead. He’d waved Picard forward, and the truck crossed a primary road. A short time later, Picard slowed, and Arnaud climbed out. When they reached Picard’s farm, Bonney asked him how far they’d come. Picard told him he’d driven about twenty miles. He waved an arm and pointed. His farm was southeast of Avize. Reims and Epernay were north of Avize.

Cotten and Lawrence pulled the weapons container from the truck and carried it into a barn. Herrsch told them to try to catch some sleep. Then he took in his surroundings. The farmhouse stood near the road. There was a garden behind the house. He heard chickens clucking behind the barn. A vineyard was farther off to the left. Bonney Herrsch turned to Picard and asked about family. Picard gestured toward the house. His wife and daughter, Marie, were inside. Herrsch told him to tell them to make preparations to leave. Picard agreed that they could be in danger. He spat and said it was the fault of the woman and Father Anton. Picard made a wry face. Then he pointed beyond the meadow that rose to the rear of his vineyard. Father Anton’s family home and vineyards were in that direction. His sister and her husband lived there. Picard was certain that Father Anton and the woman from Paris had gone there and not to Avize.

Herrsch went into the barn and slumped down on a stack of empty bags. Cotten was stretched out with his back to the wall. A submachine gun rested on his knees. Lawrence’s head rested on the weapons container, his Thompson in reach. Herrsch closed his eyes. A short time later, the aroma of coffee brought him awake. Marie Picard was pouring coffee into a tin cup for Cotten. He took a sip and then another. When he’d emptied the cup, he pointed toward Bonney. Marie moved across the barn and poured coffee for him. When he’d emptied the cup, she poured one